


Life, the Universe, and Everything

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [11]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:45:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: Micky and Mike enjoy a few hours of peace, quiet and conversation.





	Life, the Universe, and Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1999.

**March, 1968**  
  
  


Micky closed his eyes, his lips curving in a slight smile as the afternoon sun beat down on his up-turned face, warming him despite the chill in the early Spring breeze. He leaned back on his hands, feeling a few tiny pebbles digging into his palm but not enough to hurt, and he dangled his legs over the edge of the cliff, swinging his feet a little.

Beside him, Mike sat perfectly still, so still that Micky could hear nothing but the shush of the wind through the grass behind them and across the sand below them, the occasional call of a bird--nothing more.

A vast wasteland of sand and scrub brush sprawled below them, stretching out to the horizon, and no life appeared to break the monotony of dull yellow sand. It was a lonely, desolate view, but they both liked it; they'd been there many times before, but it had been close to two years since their last visit.

_Nothing has changed_ , Micky thought as he basked in the heat of the sun. _Not the scenery, not the absolute quiet--nothing. Except me and Mike. We've both changed._

Cracking his eyes open, he peeked at his friend, who was sitting in much the same position as Micky, but he was staring out over the scene before them, his dark eyes distant and unfocused as if he were in deep thought.

_Maybe not_ , Micky amended with a slight smile. _Mike's still as unreadable as ever_.

He blinked suddenly as Mags' words tumbled into his head, giving him a sharp mental slap: "Ever since I've been here, I've heard all of you picking on Mike because he keeps his feelings to himself, but you're worse! Far worse! If you pay any attention to him at all, anyone can see exactly how he feels about you guys."

Was that true? he wondered. Was she right?

For the first time in--well, he couldn't remember how long--he looked at Mike. _Really_ looked at him. He vaguely remembered feeling in the early days as if Mike weren't as closed and stand-offish as he seemed to be now, but he had to wonder if perhaps it was not so much because Mike shut himself off from them for some reason but that Micky had stopped paying attention.

On the surface, Mike's expression appeared completely inscrutable, a total blank, giving no hint of what was going on inside his head. But Micky tried to look past that, to examine Mike's face for subtle clues.

Mike's eyes were half-lidded, giving them a shuttered appearance, but upon a closer look, Micky realized that wasn't right at all; the half-lidded gaze was more drowsy than guarded, as if the afternoon sun and the peaceful setting were lulling him into a relaxed state bordering on sleepiness.

His mouth was relaxed as well; his lips weren't rigidly clamped together, and the corners were tipped upward slightly in something that wasn't quite a smile but that certainly hinted at it. His posture--leaning back on his elbows with his legs dangling over the side as Micky's were--also showed he was at ease. There was no tension in the lines of his body, and the long, slim fingers of the hand nearest Micky were languidly running through the grass, a idle caressing gesture that made Micky wonder exactly what--or who--was on Mike's mind at the moment.

In short, he appeared completely tranquil and pleased with life, and Micky was shocked to realize how oblivious he'd been to the signs--and how little credit he'd given his friend. Apparently Micky had decided along the way that it was easier to assume Mike was distant and remote rather than take the time to read all the clues that were there...It was, he realized bitterly, another barrier he'd unconsciously thrown up after Eddie's death, and he wondered how many he'd have to tear down before he was finally able to free himself from his internal prison once more.

Eddie...

He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly and as silently as possible so he wouldn't attract Mike's attention.

It seemed events were conspiring lately to force him to deal with his cousin's death and its effects on Micky himself. First Mags had blasted him for--as she put it--hiding behind a goofy clown mask, and now...

He glanced over his shoulder at the motorcycle parked a few feet behind them.

Now this.

The motorcycle had been a birthday present--but not for him. Not originally although he'd received it for his birthday about two weeks ago. His uncle had called the day before his birthday and asked if he'd come by for a visit and, when Micky agreed, he'd suggested that Micky bring along someone else who could act as a driver.

Puzzled but curious, Micky had dragged Mike along with him to his uncle's house in Burbank where he'd become the recipient of the motorcycle, and he'd driven it home, feeling like he was in a daze the entire trip.

Peter, Davy, Izzy and Mags had all rushed out as soon as Mike wheeled the GTO into the driveway at the Pad and Micky pulled up behind him; they were bubbling over with questions, but Micky just sat there on the back of the motorcyle, staring at the highly polished chrome and caressing the handlebars.

"It's a 1952 Vincent Black Lightning," Mike had explained since it rapidly became obvious that Micky wasn't going to. "It was in bad shape when Mick's uncle bought it, but he spent about two years fixin it up." He paused, darting a compassion-filled look at Micky. "With Eddie," he added quietly. "It was supposed to be his, and it's been sitting around since..." Again, he glanced at Micky, and this time, the others did too, their faces radiating sympathy. "But Mr. Dolenz decided there wasn't any sense in lettin it go to rust, so..." He trailed off once more and shrugged.

It was that moment when Micky burst into tears--great, shuddery wails that wracked his slim body so strongly that he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground where he lay in a sobbing heap on the grass, his fingers digging into the dirt as he clenched and unclenched his fists helplessly.

He became vaguely aware of gentle hands stroking his back, his arms, his hair, and the attention soothed him a little; instinctively, he nestled closer to the source and soon found himself with his head in a distinctly feminine lap and his arms around a distinctly feminine waist. Assuming Izzy was comforting him as she had on the day he learned his cousin had been killed, he pulled her close and poured out his misery in the safe circle of her arms.

But when his tears had run their course, when his sobs had finally subsided to dry hiccups, he raised his head to see--not Izzy's warm, dark eyes silently offering affection and compassion--but Mags' deep green eyes filled with unshed tears of her own as if his pain had inflicted wounds on her heart as well.

Micky smiled at the thought, remembering how shocked he'd been to realize he'd just clung to Miss Prim for comfort and support. He also remembered how quickly he'd dismissed the episode by chalking it up to mistaken identity--but that didn't erase the lingering sense of how right it had felt.

Since then, he'd noticed a subtle difference in himself; the coldness that had eaten into his heart since Eddie's death was beginning to thaw, and he was seeing the world in a different light. 

He sighed again, audibly this time, hoping Mike would pick up on the hint. To his credit, he did, turning to look a question at Micky. 

"I was thinking of Eddie," Micky said without preamble, knowing that look was as close as Mike would come to asking him what was wrong.

"Oh?" Again, a downplayed reaction that Micky would previously have interpreted as a disinterested dismissal, but now he could hear the subtle inflection that was Mike's way of inviting further discussion.

"Yeah..." Micky directed his gaze out across the sand, trying to find the words to express what he wanted to say. "I've been thinking about him a lot recently."

"Well, that's understandable," Mike replied.

"No, it's not just the Vincent," Micky explained, shaking his head. "It started before that. I..." He broke off, feeling awkward and unaccountably shy, especially considering whom he was talking to. 

In the old days when they all had first moved in together and Mike still had his own motorcycle, he and Micky had often gone riding together, and often they'd ended up here. Micky hadn't known about the place, but Mike had a knack for finding out-of-the-way places that were both beautiful--although not necessarily in expected ways--and restful.

They'd spent hours here together, sometimes talking but mostly just sitting; as they got more accustomed to each other's company, they'd begun talking more. Well, Micky had, anyway. He quickly learned he had a good listener in the lanky Texan; Mike may not have talked much about his own life, but he was willing to play sounding board for Micky, offering sage advice at times and merely an ear to vent to at others, whatever the situation called for.

Even after the motorcycle had to be sold and long rides and quiet visits to remote locales became a thing of the past, Micky had still continued to talk to Mike, confiding in him in a way he hadn't to anyone else except Eddie. But after Eddie's death, he had let himself drift away. Now he wondered if he could revive their old dynamic or if that part of their relationship was lost for good.

"Well, Mags sort of got me thinking," he said. "I mean, I didn't realize how much--" He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the plunge. "I didn't realize how much I'd closed off, y'know?" He glanced sidelong at Mike, trying to gauge his reaction.

"Yeah, I know," came the laconic reply. "So what happened?"

"She told me I was stupid and selfish for shutting everyone out," he confessed. "But it wasn't something I did on purpose," he added in his own defense. "I just...Well, I was scared of getting close to someone, then losing them and getting hurt again."

"It's easier that way," Mike said, and Micky stared at him, shocked by the admission--and the implications of it.

"Yeah...How did you--?"

"Little chick down in Texas did a number on my head once," Mike explained in his usual straght-forward manner, but Micky knew that under the deceptively simple words lay a story of great pain and suffering, and he wondered if he'd ever hear the whole of it. "Took me a while to get straightened out. Movin in with you guys helped. So did Isabel."

Micky fell silent, not knowing what--if anything--to say. But it was a relief to know that Mike understood how he felt and didn't blame him for it.

"We were there for you if you wanted us when Eddie died, Mick," he added. He wasn't looking at Micky at all, but he didn't need to be; his words bit into Micky's heart, bringing him perilously close to tears. "We still are."

"I--I want things to be--like they used to," Micky stammered, forcing the words out past the lump clogging his throat. "I want to be like I used to."

"You won't be," Mike replied tersely. "It's impossible. That Micky's long gone, and he won't be back."

Micky shivered a little at the harsh words, but he knew they were true. He also knew Mike was speaking from experience, which made the idea a little easier to bear.

"But there ain't no reason you got to stay like you are," he added.

"Nope. No reason..." Micky echoed softly.

Overhead, a sparrow chirped, suddenly diving below them near the shifting sands before swooping back up into the clear, bright sky; Micky watched it, a smile slowly spreading to cover his entire face--and then he began laughing outright. For a moment, he felt as if his soul were fastened on that sparrow's wings, and for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, his heart soared.

Micky tucked his legs up to sit cross-legged at the edge of the cliff, idly pitching small rocks over the side and watching them as they hurtled to the sand below. It was too far down for him to see them hit, but it was something for him to do with his hands while his mind turned over the events of the recent weeks.

He definitely felt better about himself now; his heart was lighter than it had been in ages, and he felt more like his old self. But one problem still remained: Mags. Even though she'd offered him a proverbial shoulder to cry on, she still remained as cool and distant as she had been ever since he kissed her, and he wasn't certain if she was upset because he kissed her or because he apologized for it afterwards.

"Mike..." He began slowly, deciding that he might as well throw this issue on the table for discussion while they were at it. "What do you think of Mags?"

"D'you mean what do I think of her in general, or what do I think of her bein with you?"

"With _me_?" he exclaimed, tossing a pebble at Mike where it bounced off his shoulder harmlessly. "Where'd you get an idea like _that_? She's not my type at all!"

Mike turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, yeah? Why?" 

Micky stared at him, momentarily silenced by the question. "Well..." He groped for words, flailing his hands helplessly as he tried to come up with a suitable response. "She's...she's so quiet." 

"Uh-huh. Then why did I see her yakkin with just about everyone at the clam bake the other night?"

"She was?" He gave Mike a blank stare, and Mike simply nodded in return. "Well...Okay, she doesn't know how to loosen up and have a good time."

"You wanna tell me why she's always in the crowd with Isabel, dancin all night at every gig we play?"

Micky felt his cheeks sting with heat. "Okay..." he admitted. "You're right. But it doesn't matter. She doesn't like me anyway." 

Mike made a rude noise. "Man, you've got some serious blinders on where that girl's concerned. Ever since she's been here, she's been comin outta her shell more and more, and you haven't even noticed. And you refuse to see what's right there in front of your eyes."

"What do you mean?" Micky asked, scrunching up his face in bewilderment. " _What's_ right there in front of my eyes?"

"Never mind." Mike shook his head with a knowing smile. "You'll figure it out one day. And if you don't, it's your loss."

"All right, Dear Abby, what exactly are you getting at?" Micky demanded, bracing his fists on his hips.

Mike sat up straight, fixing Micky with a no-nonsense look that abruptly made him feel about ten years old again, about to be on the receiving end of one of his father's lectures.

"I'm sayin you need to take a good long look at Mags as she really is, not how you _think_ she is. If you like what you see, then you better do something about it before she gets tired of waitin, and if you don't, then leave her alone. Don't keep pullin this back-and-forth stuff like you've been doin with her."

Bowing his head, Micky plucked nervously at the patch of grass in front of him. "That's the problem," he replied, his voice unusually soft. "I guess I can't shake the image of the Miss Prim she used to be. But I still don't know if she's the right girl for me, and I don't wanna hurt her trying to find out. I mean, she's so inexperienced. She'd never kissed anyone before me, and I doubt she's ever been in love before. I don't wanna be the first one to break her heart."

Mike nodded and released a slow sigh. "Yeah...I'm hip. Peter wasn't the only thing keepin me from Isabel early on. I was scared I couldn't love any girl again, and I'd just end up hurtin her if I tried." He paused, then smiled as he added, "And look how it turned out."

"Yeah..." Micky's answering smile was wistful. "I envy you, man. When I see how good it can be, I don't wanna settle for anything less, but...I dunno...It gets lonely waiting, too."

"But it'll be worth the wait," Mike replied, his voice quietly reassuring.

"Yeah, and then we can both be disgustingly happy," Micky teased. A thought suddenly occured to him, and his lips curved into an impish grin. "So tell me..."

Mike glanced warily at him, obviously familiar enough with that deceptively straight tone to know he was about to be needled.

"Did you ever explain the dougnuts thing to Izzy?" Micky asked, his face radiating the innocence of a choir boy, but the gleam in his eyes was unrepentant.

"Nope." If he'd hoped to get a rise out of Mike, he was doomed to disappointment. "Sure didn't. Don't plan to either."

"What?" Micky pressed one hand to his chest in mock-surprise. "You mean to tell me you actually keep secrets from her?"

"Sure." The admission was blunt as ever, but it still bowled Micky over.

"Really? I didn't think you guys kept anything from each other." 

"Look, it don't matter how much you love someone," Mike replied, giving Micky a stern look. "You're never gonna share everything with them. There's stuff that Isa don't want me knowin about her, and there's stuff I don't want her knowin about me. For her, it's Lindsay the slug. For me, it's the doughnuts."

"What else?" Micky pressed, curious to know--and to see how much information he could get out of Mike before he clammed up.

"I didn't tell her how many lovers I've really had either."

"You must be joking!" Micky exclaimed, shocked by this unexpected revelation. "What _did_ you tell her?"

"Told her I'd only been with five girls before her."

Micky stared at him, his lower jaw unhinging and falling open. "You've _got_ to be kidding."

"Nope."

"You told her only five?" he squeaked. "You _lied_ to her about it? Why?"

"'Cause if I told her the real number, she would've freaked," Mike replied mildly, apparently not the least bit remorseful about lying to the love of his life over such an issue. "You should've seen her face when I told her I'd been with _that_ many. She was terrified I'd compare her to 'em--and find her inadequate."

"She said that?" he breathed, his eyes growing wide.

"Not in so many words, but she didn't really have to." Mike shrugged. "I could tell she was worried, so I lied. Besides..." His expression turned grim. "The less she knows about any of that, the better."

"Y'know, you really ought to tell her the whole truth," Micky suggested gently.

"No." The denial was firm and final. "Ain't no reason for her to know. She'd just think worse of me for it."

"Mike, Izzy loves you. That's not gonna change just because she learns you went a little wild for a couple of years."

"A little?" Mike snorted. "Mick, I'm damn lucky to be alive, much less have my mind intact and no scars."

Once again, Micky was shocked into silence. The only stories Mike had ever told any of them from the time in his life between leaving Texas and moving in with them had been amusing with little sense of danger about them.

"Someone offered me a fight, I took it," Mike said quietly, directing his gaze outward rather than at Micky. "Someone dared me, I did it. Someone gave me a pill, I swallowed it. I didn't care about life. I didn't care about myself. Then one day I woke up in a stranger's bed, so hung over I could barely see, and I realized how stupid I was. I'd let someone screw up my head so bad I was willin to screw up my entire life because of her. So I quit." He glanced over at Micky, a tiny smile curving his lips as he shrugged. "I started concentratin on my music again, and it wasn't too long before I met up with Peter. Then you and Davy. You know the rest."

"Wow..." Micky breathed. "That's real heavy..."

"Yep. Now you see why I don't want Isa knowin about it," he replied. "It's an ugly chapter in my life that's long over and best forgotten. It's bad enough I've got the stain on my own soul 'cause of it. I don't want it to taint Isa's mind as well."

Micky nodded mutely, unsure of what to say after that, and Mike chuckled softly.

"Enough of that," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Next subject?"

"Next subject, huh...?" Micky stroked his chin and squinted his eyes as he pretended to mull over the idea. "Well, how about something easy. The future."

"Boy, you sure know how to pick em."

Swinging his long legs back over the edge of the cliff, Mike scooted backwards and stretched out on his side, propping himself up on one elbow; plucking a single blade of grass, he twirled it between his thumb and forefinger as he waited for Micky to continue. Micky shifted himself around so that he sat facing Mike, and he leaned back on his hands once more.

"We've been trying to get off the ground for a couple of years now, but...I dunno if it's my imagination, but does it seem like we're picking up a little?" Micky asked hesitantly. "I mean, our schedule's booked solid for the next three months, and last year this time, we were lucky if we had one gig a month."

"No, it's not your imagination," Mike replied. "I think we're gettin a good word-of-mouth reputation, and that's helpin."

"I didn't want to get my hopes up," he confessed. "But I thought things were starting to get better." He paused, then grinned broadly. "It's just great being able to pay the rent on time and not put up with Babbitt screaming at us!"

Mike chuckled appreciatively. "Yeah, but I don't know what you're gripin about. You guys always left _me_ to deal with him."

"Only because we know you can," Micky responded, managing a straight face.

After shooting Micky a "yeah, right" look, Mike's expression turned serious. "So what brought this on? All this thinkin about the group and the future?"

Micky lowered his gaze to the ground in front of him, drawing little patterns in a patch of dirt. "Well...I dunno...It's kinda been on my mind since my birthday. None of us are getting any younger, and things can't stay the way they are forever," he said, looking up and meeting Mike's eyes with an unusually somber look. "At first this whole band idea was great, but it's not very practical, y'know? One of these days, you and Izzy are gonna get married, but how can you support a family the way we live now? How can any of us think about getting our own places, getting married or anything like that the way things are? I mean...I guess we need to think about what we're gonna do if we don't make it."

"You're not thinkin about leavin the group, are you?" Mike watched him with visible alarm in his eyes, and Micky hastened to reassure him.

"No! No, no, definitely not," he said quickly. "It's just that I thought maybe...maybe we ought to make some plans for the future...just in case."

Mike gazed at him steadily for a moment, traces of worry still lingering in his face, but then a slow smile tugged at his lips. "Shouldn't that be my line?"

Micky laughed, relieved that Mike wasn't upset by what he'd said. "Probably, but I beat you to it this time," he retorted good-naturedly. "So how about it? Do you know what you wanna do if we don't make it as a group?"

"Nope." He shook his head slowly, his expression completely serious. "It never occured to me we wouldn't, so I haven't thought about it."

"Really?" Micky darted a startled glance at him. "You really feel that way?"

"I really do," he replied calmly. "We're gonna make it. Maybe not tomorrow or next week, but..." He paused, a slight smile curving his lips. "Someday, man...Someday."

Micky leaned his cheek in his palm as he regarded Mike with more than a little amusement. With that attitude and stubborn streak goading them on, The Monkees would no doubt succeed whether they wanted to or not! he thought with a silent giggle.

But while his practical side had been rearing its head lately, demanding that he face life on more "realistic" terms, deep down he still felt the same idealism that had driven him to agree to join the band in the first place. There had been a sense of destiny to them, especially given the way they'd all met, and he simply couldn't believe that they'd been brought together for nothing.

"Sometimes..." He began to speak slowly, his voice distant and dreamy even to his own ears. "Sometimes it feels like we're standing on the edge...All it'll take is one little push, and that'll be it. And we're all just waiting for that push..."

"Maybe we oughta jump," Mike said, a mock-serious suggestion.

"Maybe..." Micky nodded, still caught up in his own reverie. "We've been playing in the shallow end of the water, but if we jump--if we're pushed--we'll be in deep. We'll have to sink or swim on our own."

"Yep." Mike gave him a piercing look. "It'll mean a lot of changes. You ready?"

"Yeah..." He nodded, conviction growing within him even as he spoke. "Yeah, I am."

Suddenly Mike smiled and rose to his feet. "Well, then I guess we better not be late for practice," he said, bringing them both back to the real world of the Now.

Micky laughed as he scrambled up, reaching for the helmet he'd discarded on the grass nearby. "Hey--" He touched Mike's arm lightly to get his attention, and Mike turned to him, visibly curious. "You wanna drive back?"

"Seriously?" He seemed surprised by the offer, but definitely pleased. "Sure."

When Micky swung his legs over the side of the Vincent and wrapped his arms around Mike's waist, a wave of deja vu washed over him. How many times had he ridden like this? It seemed as if the years had suddenly melted away, but he knew they hadn't. There were too many differences. Too many changes.

Mike drove conservatively at first, and Micky was slightly disappointed--until, without warning, he sped up, and Micky realized he must've been trying to get accustomed to the feel of the bike, acclimating himself to the unfamiliar vehicle before doing anything that might get them both wiped out.

Before them, the sun sent fiery tendrils along the horizon as it sank, leaving a growing trail of deep blue, purple and black in its wake, and Micky drank in the sight, enjoying the view. It was, he thought, a perfect moment, one he'd remember the rest of his life. Twilight was falling, he felt lighter and better about himself--about his life--than he had in far too long, and he'd spent a tranquil afternoon in the company of a good friend before enjoying a pleasant ride home.

Yes, he thought with satisfaction, life was good at the moment. No worries, no problems, no--

He felt the motorcycle slowing down then, and he saw Mike turn his head, appearing to glance over at the field beside them; they both knew that technically it was a short cut back to the main paved road, but there was a wide ditch between the edge of the field and the road running the entire length of the field, which was why they were obliged to take the long route down the dusty dirt path.

Suddenly the motorcycle veered left, and Micky reflexively clutched Mike's waist tighter, a flash of panic sending adrenaline singing through his veins when he realized what Mike was about to do. 

He was about to jump the ditch.

No! Micky wanted to scream in Mike's ear. It's too wide! We'll never make it! We'll crash!

But he didn't. Instead, he started grinning like a maniac--laughing, even--and although the sound was stolen by the rushing wind as Mike kept increasing their speed, Micky could feel him laughing too.

Was that his life passing before his eyes? Who cares! he thought wildly. They were young, they were on the back of one of the grooviest motorcycles in the world, wind stinging their cheeks and power coursing in their blood.

The ditch sprawled before them like a scaled down Grand Canyon, and Micky found his excitement accelerating along with the Vincent's motor; faster and faster they approached--the moment of truth had arrived--he felt the front wheel lift--heard himself--heard Mike--both of them yelling "YEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAA!"--felt his throat rough and sore--and then BUMP! they hit the ground and kept going, the ditch cleared, receding like an old memory as Mike steered towards the road back home.


End file.
